Page 43 of A Portrait of Love

At the current pace—less than thirty minutes a day, and with half the meetings cancelled—she’d end up staying at Whitcomb for half a year just to get the sketches she needed.

Oh, and you’d just hate that, wouldn’t you? Trapped in a house with Simon Fairchild for six months.

With a pang, Honey thought back to the yelling she’d overheard earlier. If what she’d heard was true—about him leaving—it didn’t sound like she’d have to worry about Simon bothering her again.

Chapter Twelve

Two Weeks Later …

Simon woke up confused, the bed linens twisted around his naked torso like a thick, damp vine.

Dim gray light seeped through the combined shutters and drapes that he’d kept closed for the past week and, for a moment, he thought that was what had woken him: sunlight.

But then something rumbled—a door being repeatedly struck by something hard, like a fist—and his brother’s muffled voice came from the other side of the heavy oak.

“Simon, open the door.” The duke paused, as if he could hear Simon’s sluggish brain struggling to come awake. “Don’t make me fetch the innkeeper.”

Simon groaned and let his head fall back on the pillow before croaking. “What the devil do you want?”

“Open. The. Door.”

He stared at the whorls on the ceiling, the once-white plaster-stained tea-brown from centuries of candle and fire smoke. The boards squeaked outside the door, as if his brother were preparing to go downstairs and drag the innkeeper up here. To be a witness to the duke scolding Simon as if he were a ten-year-old boy.

Simon sighed as he swung his feet over the side of the bed, levering himself up. He winced when not-yet-healed bullet wound snagged on the rough woolen blanket. It had been almost twelve days since he’d been injured, but the damned thing still hurt like the dickens.

When he was standing, he realized that he was naked and briefly considered slipping on his robe, which was draped over the back of the chair; he decided against it. Maybe if he made Wyndham uncomfortable enough, he would leave sooner.

He wrenched open the door and smirked at his brother. “Good morning, your grace.” He gave him a shallow, mocking bow.

Wyndham frowned slightly but otherwise did not acknowledge Simon’s nudity. He brushed past him into the room. Simon was more than a little disappointed. Was there nothing he could do to get a reaction out of his brother?

“Shut the door, Simon.” The duke tossed his hat onto a table cluttered with books, empty wine bottles, and dirty crockery. Lily—who also acted as The George’s maid—had been less than friendly to Simon after he’d politely refused her services in his bed.

He hadn’t refused because he’d not wanted a wench—because he bloody well had. Rather, he’d refused because every time he closed his eyes, he saw that damned Honey Keyes in his mind’s eye.

As much of a bounder as he could be, he drew the line at bedding one woman while thinking about another.

“Here,” Wyndham said, snatching up Simon’s robe and throwing it onto the bed before lowering himself into the room’s only chair.

Simon was tempted to simply walk out of the room and down the stairs, out of the inn, and all the way to Everley. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that he had exceptionally soft, sensitive feet.

He slammed the door and then flung himself onto the bed and bunched the pillows behind him before lounging back and clasping his hands behind his head. He stared across his naked body at his brother.

Wyndham sighed—the equivalent of another man yelling. “I have seen you naked, Simon, more than I care to recall. Believe me, you are not shocking me or making me uncomfortable.”

His cool, weary words caused a flush to surge up Simon’s chest and neck.

Yes, his brother had seen him naked. And helped him piss and shit when he’d been too sick to do either of those activities unaided. He’d done things for Simon that no human being should ever have to do for another—no matter their age, gender, or relationship.

Wyndham had come to Belgium to find him upon reading Simon’s name among a list of the missing.

And, because the Duke of Plimpton never failed at anything he set out to do, he’d found Simon in a filthy, cramped hospital in the chaotic aftermath of the battle. He’d been naked under a pile of other naked men for three days after the cannon exploded and knocked him unconscious. Scavengers had taken every stitch of his clothing and belongings, which he couldn’t imagine were in such good condition given his condition.

The only difference between Simon and the other naked men had been that he was still alive. Barely. Somebody—he never discovered who—had found him and brought him back to the hospital. None of his wounds had been life-threatening, which had been the only reason he’d survived for three whole days and nights.

However, by the time he received medical care, his injuries were badly infected.

Wyndham must have thrown enough money around to buy a small village because the next time Simon woke up, he was in a humble room, but one that was clean, quiet, and private.